


Ganymede at Midnight

by madelgard



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mild Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madelgard/pseuds/madelgard
Summary: Guillermo dreamed of the phantom press of hands pulling and shifting him, rearranging his limbs like a doll in a grip that could shatter bone. Exploratory, but with an edge of escalation. Testing the barriers of Guillermo’s resistance and finding them paper-thin and crumbling.
Relationships: Guillermo/Nandor the Relentless (What We Do in the Shadows TV)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 212





	Ganymede at Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> While Nandor is canonically terrible at hypnotism, he has been shown to be gifted at manipulating people through the aether (see, for example, his encounter with Doug Peters in the City Council episode). So for the purposes of this story, the aether includes the realm of dreams.

“[Ganymede] was the loveliest born of the race of mortals, and therefore

the gods caught him away to themselves, to be Zeus' wine-pourer,

for the sake of his beauty, so he might be among the immortals.

— Homer, _Iliad_ , Book XX, lines 233-235.

The dreams enveloped him like a shroud. Guillermo could not shake them even in his waking hour. Like a spider’s web, gossamer-thin and forever clinging. He had always dreamed vividly, in big colors and sharp noises. He’d had night terrors as a child. Guillermo could remember, as a boy, waking with his throat constricted in fear and a dread weight on his chest. The feeling of his heart beating so loudly that he could feel it in his bones. As a young man he had striven towards exhaustion. Fatigue was the surest path towards an empty, dreamless sleep. Working for Nandor had been a blessing in that regard. Nothing tired Guillermo out quite like being a familiar.

But something was wrong. Guillermo was more tired than ever, but the dreams were getting worse. And they had shifted in their hue, warped into bizarre new shades. There was a haze to them now that left Guillermo muddled and confused. He dreamed of the phantom press of hands pulling and shifting him, rearranging his limbs like a doll in a grip that could shatter bone. Exploratory, but with an edge of escalation. Testing the barriers of Guillermo’s resistance and finding them paper-thin and crumbling. And Guillermo would wake drenched in sweat, but for all the searing reality of the weight of those hands they seemed to be disconnected to any true body. Formless, like smoke through his fingertips.

Guillermo counted the days by the progress of the hands. Fingers threaded through the gently curling hair on his head. A thumb pressed beneath the indent of his jaw and pushed into the underside of his tongue hard enough to make his teeth ache. Broad hands ringing his neck and flexing against the muscles of his throat. Bolder exploration as day bled into day.

Guillermo’s work was suffering, but the vampires did not seem to notice or care. Laszlo and Nadja’s indifference was expected, but Nandor’s disinterest would have stung if Guillermo had not been so distracted himself. As the dreams had progressed into a more prolonged and precise exploration, it because increasingly clear to Guillermo that there was, more likely than not, a supernatural arm behind the twist of the spectral hands. The revelation had terrified him. He’d hauled enough corpses to know that catching the eye of a paranormal entity very often spelled disaster for humans. And the sheer quantity of vampires who had expressed an explicit and enthusiastic desire to _eat_ Guillermo was enough to render him permanently on edge. But past the raw animal fear that so often drove his actions, Guillermo was in possession of enough of a steely underbelly to know that he needed to uncover the identity of whoever was playing him for a marionette. More urgently, he needed to cut the strings before he found himself yanked into the jaws of some ancient and terrible creature.

Guillermo slept with the expectation that he would be strangled in his sleep. He tracked the trajectory of the dread hands and it seemed to him that the executioner’s scaffold was the most likely destination. In his dreams the hands seemed fixated on neck. They traced the muscles in his throat and pressed themselves hatefully into his jugular, hungry for the blood flowing just beneath the skin. Guillermo would wake, alive and uninjured, but with the terrible knowledge that next time, it might be different. Something would buckle and give way, and Guillermo was helpless to stop it. He was living his days under the weight of the guillotine.

When it came, the killing blow was not what he had expected.

Guillermo fell into a heavy sleep and at once the hands made their appearance, grasping at his hair, his face, his neck with the urgency of a drowning man. But in an instant the familiar sensations of the phantom hands gave way to a great weight, the aether itself collapsing into the terrestrial sphere below. The heavy press of a corporeal body emerged from behind the gloom of the dream and Guillermo was suddenly covered by the bulk of something large and broad and _real_. The sensation of it went beyond disorientation. Something that so obviously did not belong in the realm into which it had forced entrance and which his consciousness was trying to desperately expel. A splinter in his eye. The corporeal physical existence of the hands were unsettling, but they were nothing compared to this.

And whatever _this_ was, it has seemed to pull Guillermo’s dreaming consciousness into a hazy realm of un-reality as if through a sieve. Guillermo felt as if his mind had been shredded like meaty ribbons and dragged screaming into a vast and airless plain. It _hurt_. Guillermo was no longer truly sleeping, but he was not awake, either. He was trapped in some liminal space with a stranger pressed firmly along the length of him. A large hand covered Guillermo’s eyes. He could not move. He could not see. He would be swung blindly into death, and he would not make a sound.

Guillermo felt a nose press into the hollow of his throat and the scratch of a beard rubbing against his Adam’s apple. Hair brushed against his ears and a familiar smell flooded his senses. Cedarwood with an undercurrent of rose oil. The wet, heady smell of the earth after a hard rain. And something terribly ancient. He felt himself go rigid as a corpse as the reality of what and, more distressingly, _who_ was curled on top of him hit home. If Guillermo was blindfolded and flung into a cave, he could have followed that smell through the black pits of the underworld and safely back into civilization. Even with the hand pressed firmly against his eyes and his sight extinguished, Guillermo would recognize Nandor’s smell anywhere.

Clearly, Guillermo was in no mortal danger. But what was Nandor playing at, exactly? Why would he—

Guillermo felt a tongue lick a long, lewd strip up the side of his neck. A large thigh pushed itself between Guillermo’s legs and rocked up gently. He groaned and clutched at Nandor’s clothing blindly. _Whatever he’s playing at_ , Guillermo thought desperately, _I’ll play along_. It was becoming abundantly clear to him what it was that Nandor actually wanted. It was the same want that Guillermo had been telegraphing for the better part of a decade. Nandor’s reciprocation was as unexpected as it was welcomed, and Guillermo was not about to muddy it all up by doing something as ridiculous as put up a fight against his would-be assailant. For whatever reason, Nandor wanted Guillermo without Guillermo actually knowing that Nandor did, in fact, want Guillermo. And that knowledge was enough. Even if that was all Nandor was willing to give, Guillermo would take it greedily.

Nandor’s free hand was stroking Guillermo’s side, kneading the fleshy folds of his hips. His knee continued its lazy undulation. It pressed into the underside of Guillermo’s groin with just enough force to color Guillermo’s pleasure with a red edge of discomfort. Guillermo groaned. It wasn’t enough. And what if this was his only chance for more? “Please,” he whined. The hand stilled. Guillermo heard Nandor suck in a breath. “Please,” he continued, “please, please fuck me.”

At his side the hand clenched so quickly and so forcefully that Guillermo swore. If his flesh had been real, if he had not been trapped in this liminal dreamscape of seemingly unending sexual torment, Guillermo was certain that a chunk of meat and muscle would have been torn out by that hand. Guillermo was immediately grateful for the unreality of this place in a way he had not been before.

“Please,” Guillermo said again. And that was all it took. He felt the great crashing weight of a jaw colliding with his own. Nandor’s mouth was furnace hot, and the needle-sharp edge of his canines split Guillermo’s lip. Before Guillermo could hiss out in pain, Nandor’s tongue was lapping at the blood. His cock swelled at the sting of it.

Nandor’s chest, broad and expansive, was pressing against Guillermo so forcefully that it knocked the wind out of him. He was heavy as stone, a dead weight against Guillermo’s chest. With as much force as he could muster, Guillermo tried to roll his hips upwards, desperate for contact. Nandor ground down against him. Guillermo’s hand felt blindly downwards, wedged between the broad length of Nandor’s torso and Guillermo’s own sensible slacks. He managed to graze the outline of Nandor’s length as it strained obscenely against his ridiculous deerskin trousers. With a frantic need, Guillermo grasped one of the laces and tugged at it.

Nandor groaned into Guillermo’s mouth. Guillermo felt it rumble through him. Suddenly Nandor’s hand enveloped his own, pushing Guillermo away. Guillermo experienced the merest flicker of disappoint until he heard the distinct sound of Nandor shucking off his trousers with a frenetic speed.

And then Nandor did something complicated with his hands. Or at least it _sounded_ complicated; Guillermo couldn’t be sure. Guillermo felt the cool air a moment before he realized that his own clothes had somehow been torn to shreds. Perhaps it was the hazy unreality of the dream, or maybe Nandor was really that fast—whatever it was, it did not matter. The only thing in the world that mattered to Guillermo was the unarguable fact that Nandor’s bare leg was pressed against Guillermo’s thighs so closely that a drop of blood could not have squeezed between them.

Nandor’s hand was still covering his eyes. It was torturous, to know that Nandor was flush against him, bared from the waist down but hidden entirely from view. Guillermo ached to see him. He needed the sight of it burned into his brain forever, he wanted the memory to savor and feast upon in the dead of night and the light of day, to turn over and examine and hold against him in his moments of weakness and desperation. “Let me look at you,” Guillermo said suddenly. “I won’t say a word. I just need to—I just want to see you.” Silence. _I have to try_ , he thought desperately. He dropped his voice to a low and desperate keen. “ _Please_ , Master.”

A growl seemed to rip itself out of Nandor’s throat. Suddenly Guillermo found himself flipped over, his belly pressed into the ground or bed or whatever it was that made up the firmament of this liminal world. Guillermo strained to turn himself around, to look into the face of the man he’d obsessively served for years in such extreme devotion that it bordered on paganism, true druidic worship on an altar of blood and bones. _I deserve to look at him_ , Guillermo thought furiously, but it was useless. One powerful hand pushed Guillermo’s shoulder downwards while the other wound itself into his hair and forced him face down and immobile. He was pinned.

He felt Nandor’s chest press against his back so closely that Guillermo could track the rise and fall of his breathing with exacting precision. The hair on Nandor’s legs ticked Guillermo’s naked thighs. More urgently, Guillermo could feel Nandor’s length pressed hot and slick against the cleft of his ass. They were _so close_. And still Nandor had refused to reveal himself.

Guillermo tried to turn again but the force of Nandor’s hold was so solid that Guillermo could feel his muscles convulsing spasmodically at the exertion of trying to move that ironclad grip in any direction. His cock ached at the reality of his helplessness, but he couldn’t even rut against the ground in relief. All he could do was beg. “If you don’t fuck me,” Guillermo rasped out, “I honestly think I might die.”

Guillermo knew he had struck home when he felt Nandor’s cock twitch minutely against him. His master always did have a thing for _supplication_.

Nandor released his grip on Guillermo and dropped his body weight down against Guillermo’s back so forcefully that Guillermo saw stars. Even in a dream, Nandor was a force of nature. Before Guillermo had time to react, two large hands gripped the tops of thighs while Nandor’s body seemed to slide down. Guillermo could feel Nandor’s cock leaking slightly as if burning a trail down his skin. Guillermo flushed at the idea of being marked in that way. Branded, Nandor’s property.

Nandor hauled his waist up slightly. His grip on Guillermo’s thighs did not lessen. The reality of what Nandor was going to do hit Guillermo a heartbeat before the deed was done.

As a younger man Guillermo had always been interested in history, and he’d had a special passion for classical antiquity and, more specifically, classical mythology. Brave heroes battling terrible and monstrous creatures for fame, for glory, for love. It stirred something in him, something primal and almost spiritualistic. And nobody looked twice at a library filled with copies of the _Iliad_ , even if they noticed that the most well-worn pages seemed to be those concerning Achilles’ lament for Patroclus. Guillermo wasn’t a pervert, he was just well-read. And to be well-read on the ancients necessitated a general knowledge on what could poetically be described as Greek love. Ganymede abducted by Zeus and spirited away as Ganymede’s dogs bayed helplessly at the sky. Possessive, all-consuming, and distinctly masculine love. And when that love was consummated, the chosen method of effectuation could be found, more often than not, between the soft thighs of a boy.

Which is to say, Guillermo was familiar with intercrural sex, but only in the strictly academic sense. He was decidedly unprepared for the reality of it. The sensation of Nandor’s cock driving between the meat of his thighs and brushing against the underside of his perineum burned through him like a forest fire. Guillermo’s heart was beating so wildly in his chest that he knew Nandor had to be able to feel it. It beat in a violent staccato rhythm mirrored by the snapping of Nandor’s hips as he drove himself slickly between the chasm of Guillermo’s thighs. Each thrust grazed Guillermo’s cock so slightly that it would have infuriated most men, but to Guillermo that lack of touch enhanced the slight sensation with a hedonistic electricity. The agony of self-denial was itself a kind of pleasure.

Nandor was breathing raggedly behind him. Guillermo felt him press his face into the warm curve of Guillermo’s shoulder and mouth very slightly at his neck. Guillermo’s cock pulsed between his legs, but still he would not touch himself. He could ride it out a little longer. Something about the anonymity of this dream-that-was-not-a-dream seemed to imbibe him with an assertiveness that he otherwise did not possess. The dream gave him plausible deniability. He could ask for things that he otherwise could never hope to speak of. Perhaps that’s what Nandor was thinking, too.

“Bite me,” Guillermo said in a rough voice that he did not recognize.

For the first time in living memory, Nandor obeyed. His canines sunk deeply into Guillermo’s neck with the dexterity of a viper. Guillermo felt the warm spray of blood and a thick tongue lapping against his neck, sucking at him so ferociously that Guillermo could feel the thrum of it in his bones like a death rattle. It _burned_. Guillermo let out a sound that was half a moan and half a sob. This was what he needed.

Nandor’s thrusting had taken on a more violent and erratic tempo, as if his cock was trying to outpace the bloodletting. The pain in Guillermo’s neck throbbed anew with every beat of his heart, while, simultaneously, the force of Nandor’s thrusts left him sore and aching below. Guillermo couldn’t hold off any longer. When he finally took himself in hand, his relief was instantaneous. He brought himself off with the wet sounds of his own blood ringing in his ears and the phantom sensations of Nandor’s cock slipping between his thighs.

Guillermo’s orgasm had wrung out of him so forcefully that he was barely aware that Nandor’s own completion had followed him as close as a shadow. It was not until Nandor had stilled completely that Guillermo was aware of the sensation of Nandor’s infernal seed dripping against his thighs and the low, heavy breathing signaling that Nandor had come to his end. Dimly, Guillermo felt Nandor release his bite, his teeth slipping out of Guillermo’s neck with a wet _pop_.

Exhausted, Guillermo did not try to move. He was still crushed beneath the substantial weight of Nandor, Nandor’s head still pressed warm against his neck. A piece of inky black hair tickled against Guillermo’s nose. Guillermo tried to brush it away, but his hand caught on a strand of hair and it again brushed against his nose. He sneezed.

“ _Gesundheit_ ,” Nandor said absently. He seemed to realize his mistake immediately. His whole body had gone rigid as beneath him Guillermo tried to jerk his head around. Guillermo barely had the time to cry out a triumphant, “ _I knew it!_ ” before he felt the otherworldly sensation of his consciousness being sucked back into the realm of true unconsciousness as if through a fine mesh wire. And Guillermo was at once deep in a black and dreamless sleep. And in his hand was clenched a single strand of long, black hair.

“We know this activity is accounted worthy by those worthy to be counted;

The people with power and position in the world -

The very censors who decide what is sin and what is allowed -

These men are not immune to the soft thighs of a boy.” 

—Ganymede in "The Debate of Ganymede and Helen," 12th c. A.D., author unknown

**Author's Note:**

> I would love & appreciate any comments.


End file.
